What You Need
by RagnarokSkurai
Summary: [slash] Bobby's trying to figure out what's got him so upset, trying to figure out what he needs. Then he tries to figure out if he likes the answer. JohnBobby, hints of LoganScott
1. Ice Cream and Leather Jackets

It's like John never existed.  
  
If they had spoken of him with anger or sadness or mistrust, maybe Bobby could've handled that. If the Professor had just announced one day that the name "John" was never to be spoken in this house again, he could've handled that. He'd have understood that. John had left them. It was a betrayal. So why didn't anybody care?  
  
So what if everyone was busy crying and weeping or sitting in a stony silence. He just couldn't understand why no one but he himself missed Johnny. Sure, Johnny wouldn't have won any prizes for personality, but Logan doesn't exactly have the best disposition either and everyone had been talking about him from his departure to his return. What was wrong with Piotr, with Rogue? Why didn't they say, just once 'I miss John,' or 'Why did he leave, anyway? Why didn't they say something? They never once said 'Remember the time Johnny . . .' or 'John always used to . . .' like they did with Ms. Grey.  
  
And it wasn't that Bobby hadn't liked Ms. Grey. It really wasn't. He had adored her just like every other kid in school. Whether she had been teaching them some math theorem, or how to focus a mutant ability, or talking with one of the girls - sometimes even the guys - about a problem, she had been a good person. Sure, she had been kind of cold until you got to know her, but cold was something Bobby could deal with. So when she died, it hurt. But certainly not like how Johnny's leaving hurt. Because Johnny was still alive. Because Johnny made a choice to leave.  
  
Bobby sighs and headed for the kitchen. Ice cream. Bobby realizes his dependency on ice cream is almost too close for comfort to Rogue's monthly penchant for chocolate-covered macadamias, but hey, you need what you need when you need it. When Bobby is struck by the blues, step one is ice cream. Frozen, sugary goodness. Having a full stomach sometimes makes him feel a little less empty elsewhere. If ice cream can't do the trick, if the pangs can't be chalked up to hunger, then it's the Danger Room. Freezing something. Shattering it into a thousand sharp, glittering particles. Food and violence.  
  
Sometimes, when things are really bad, he brings out the jacket. Johnny's jacket. Not the one he was wearing the day he left, of course, but his other one. The older one that he left hanging on the back of the door of the bathroom he and Bobby shared, the one that still smells of cigarettes and the cologne he always wore. Bobby wears it around the room sometimes, losing himself in the memories. Guilty pleasures. Things he shouldn't think about, but does.  
  
So. Ice cream first.  
  
As Bobby looks into the freezer, he finds himself forced to ponder the eternal question: Rocky road or vanilla, rocky road or vanilla... oh. Wait a second. There's some chocolate peanut butter under the package of waffles. And peanut butter wins every time.  
  
And Bobby knows he shouldn't be eating this right now. It's already after six. He's got a session in the Danger Room in half an hour, and chances are he'll puke this up if he eats it. Guess he could just not eat it. Guess he could just skip the session. But he always skipped with Johnny. If he skipped now, what would be the point? Who would he have to talk to? What would he have to do? It's funny, really, how you don't realize some things, even stupid meaningless things, until after they're gone. Long gone.  
  
Bobby doesn't even notice that Logan is in the kitchen until he hears the slam of a cabinet doors against the wall. After the initial shock, it isn't all that surprising to find Logan here. He's probably in the kitchen more than any other room. His healing factor gives him an unheard-of metabolism, and at times half the fridge has disappeared into Logan's stomach with no problem. So there's nothing wrong with this picture. Until Bobby notices the duffel bag in Logan's hand.  
  
"Are you leaving?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"When are you going?"  
  
"Right about now," Logan says gruffly. And Bobby knows why he's leaving now. It's the busy part of the day. Dinner, Danger Room practice, one on one sessions with the Professor. No one is going to notice that Logan left, at least not until tomorrow. Bobby knows Logan wants to avoid saying all his goodbyes - he's not so good at them. And Mr. Summers depends on Logan now; sometimes Bobby wonders if he does more that that. But that's all. Not really his business. He shouldn't even be wondering, but he was kind of hoping they would get together. He knows they're polar opposites, but they're both alike in the ways that matter; they're both strong, probably stronger than they need to be. Mr. Summers needs to let loose a little, even if right now he's too broken, and everyone at the Mansion knows that once Logan's on your side he'll take care of you forever. And right now Mr. Summers needs someone to take care of him. Maybe it'll work out. And maybe Bobby's imagining things. God, he's stupid sometimes. How many times has he imagined things that weren't really there?  
  
Bobby throws his spoon carelessly into the rapidly melting ice cream. He's not so hungry anymore.  
  
As Logan heads for the door, Bobby reaches out and grabs his shoulder. He feels Logan flinch, and he's not sure if it's because he touched him with his freezing hands or just because he touched him. Logan's strange like that. "Will you do me favor?" Bobby asks hesitantly. He sees the surprise in Logan's eyes, but it's not the bad sort.  
  
"Sure, kid. What?"  
  
"Do you know where Magneto is? Has the Professor said anything?"  
  
"If I knew where he was, I woulda gone after him and dragged John back here, adamantine and all." It seems Logan knows why Bobby was asking.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, if you ever find out... tell me, okay?"  
  
"I will." Logan shifts uncomfortably. "If ya don't mind me asking, were ya two just... friends?"  
  
It's funny to think of Logan trying to be tactful. He's choosing his words so carefully, and that's not like him at all. But the question sends Bobby spiraling back through his memories, through whispered conversations after lights out, snowball fights where John would melt the snowballs before they got within a foot of him, mornings spent frantically copying each others homework, glimpses of John in the showers that Bobby's mind wanted to forget but his hormones refused to let go of, nights they snuck out and went in to town together, Johnny smoking and the both of them drinking and then sharing one inebriated kiss which John didn't seem to remember the next morning. Or maybe that was all some weird dream of Bobby's, and had never really happened anyway.  
  
Bobby realizes he hasn't answered the question.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Ah," Logan grunts. "That's the worst."  
  
And maybe it is. And maybe Logan knows what he's talking about this time. Maybe he and Johnny weren't the only ones around here who don't do transitions well.  
  
"Goodbye, Logan."  
  
"Bye kid."  
  
That night Bobby packs a bag and takes the keys to one of the cars in the garage. He's not sure where he's going, but he's sure almost anywhere is better than here. Bobby puts on Johnny's jacket before he goes, though, and leaves a note telling Rogue not to wait for him. He probably won't be back. At least not for her. One for Mr. Summers that says Logan left too, and when he gets back could you please tell him thanks for the advice? Thank you. And then one for the Professor, saying that it wasn't anything he did or that anyone did, really, it's just that Bobby can't pretend that Johnny's not still out there somewhere. He'll drop a line now and then, let them know he's alive.  
  
As he pulls out of the driveway in the Jag (sorry, Mr. Summers, but what teenage boy could resist? He's sure he'll return it someday), he wonders when the hell life got so complicated, or maybe when did he get so stupid that he had to choose between a non-existent romance with his best friend and everything else. But he knows this is something he has to do. Because you need what you need when you need it. And what he needs - what he's been needing - is Johnny. 


	2. The Lone Penguin

Chapter 2  
  
St. John has run out on a lot of things in his life, and he doesn't regret very many of them. He doesn't regret leaving the Mansion to go with Magneto. He wouldn't go back in time and stop himself from leaving his home and heading for the city. He's never once thought about cursing the day he blew up the cop cars at Bobby's house. John just isn't programmed to feel remorse for things like that. They were good decisions. The pros outweighed the cons and he did what he had to do. If John's feels bad about anything, it's running out on Bobby.  
  
And maybe "running out" is even too strong a description. Bobby and he were just friends, after all. Best friends. But that's it. And in the scheme of things, the really big scheme of things, what the hell does that matter anyway?  
  
A club isn't really the place one would probably come to philosophize. But John thinks best when he's in a place that's hotter than he is, that's moving faster, that's more alive. He can watch life pass him by and think about his own. 'Cause John's real problem is that he wants to fade into the crowd; he wants to be just another face, but he never can. He knows that. Even among the mutants at the Mansion he stuck out. He was a little too hard-edged, too much attitude and not enough control. He walked the line too closely for anyone not to wonder whether he'd cross it. And now that he had, well, there wasn't really any going back. John knew that he never would have fit in there. So somewhere along the way he decided that if he was going to stick out, then he was going to _stick out_, damn it. They'd all pay attention to how different he was.  
  
He's obsessed with his lighter, he knows. Another odd little quirk. You'd have to pry this thing out of his cold dead fingers to get it away from him. Not a nice idea, but there's truth to it. Johnny doesn't get real attached to most things. Not that he doesn't like stuff, because, yeah, he likes his PS2, his computer, his clothes; but he could live without them. Not that living without clothes would be all that fun. And he is a bit of a computer junkie, he admits. But if he really, really had to... the point is, he could. His lighter? He freaks out when he steps out the front door and realizes that he forgot it on the bedside table that morning. Because John's other problem is once he finds something he really likes, once he gets attached to something, he won't let it go. Ever. That's why he never got into a relationship with anyone, not even the stupid goofy relationships of adolescence. Because it takes something incredibly amazing to make an impression on him, and once it does, he's sunk. Completely and totally sunk. He's too afraid that he'll end up mating for life. Like a fucking wolf or something. Or maybe that was penguins. Stupid animals. He never did pay too much attention in biology. And are his inner voices are rambling? Could be. Yeah. Kinda. He tries not to pay too much attention. Philosophy was never an exact science.  
  
So St. John was just stumbling through life with his lighter, the lone wolf or the lone penguin or whatever, and then Bobby happened. And whoa, did Bobby happen. It was really weird too, because John can remember a time that Bobby was just a blip on the radar screen. John didn't even know his name. Bobby was the kid with the blue eyes, the ice boy, blondie. Jubes was more John's style because Jubes was the only other street kid around. Bobby and Kitty and the rest were still under the impression they were more or less normal, while Jubilee and John knew better. Of course, then came the fateful day John and Bobby became roomies. And if Bobby was still a blip at that point, at least he was a large and well-known blip. And then they'd started to hang out. 'Cause Bobby was fun to be around, even if he did walk about in a huge cloud of denial.  
  
And things gradually snuck up on him, which was weirder still, because things just don't sneak up on St. John Allerdyce. Because at first, there was a time John didn't know about Bobby's addiction to ice cream. Then there was a time they'd hang out and watch movies together, followed by a time where John didn't go anywhere or do much of anything without Bobby. After which there was a piss-in-your-pants frightening time where Bobby was the exclusive star of John's fantasies and wet dreams. A time where whenever John got close to Bobby, he wanted to lean in and grab him, just snake his hands through Bobby's hair and kiss him senseless.  
  
Chances are John never would have done that. Once Rogue arrived, the chances were smaller still. And when he left with Magneto, he blew any chance he had right out of the fucking water.  
  
So. That's pretty much the summery of John's messed-up life. The high points, anyway, or perhaps it's the low points. Whatever. John's philosophy on life? Life is a bitch. Sometimes she's on your side, sometimes not, but she always screws you over in the end.  
  
And John sighs quietly before throwing himself back into the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. He flirts shamelessly and dances boldly, accepting with good grace that he'll leave with some blonde-haired, blue- eyed boy. He doesn't know why he bothers. They're never Bobby and they can't be. So, when John catches a glimpse of blue eyes in a tanned face, he works his way through the crowd towards them, smiling wryly. But then the boy reaches out his hand and touches John's face. A cold hand, which is strange enough in a place packed full of sweaty bodies like this, but this hand is cold, like someone who just came out a winter storm. Cold as ice. Cold as only one person in the world is cold.  
  
"Bobby...?"  
  
And chances are Bobby can't hear him above the roar of the music, but he smiles and nods anyway. Yep. Same old Bobby. Though, to be truthful, John doesn't really remember Bobby as the type to go clubbing. And he never wore his pants that tight before. John's pretty sure of that. But that's not really the important thing here, as much as John wants it to be. Bobby's here. Here. In the middle of a dance floor of a club, far, far away from the Mansion. And John isn't sure why he's here exactly, but he thinks that's the important thing. One thing John is sure of is that he won't regret this. He's not going to let himself.

* * *

Reviewers will be given nekkid St. Johns and Bobbys. A maybe a Logan and Scott or two...


	3. Stupid Kiss

Bobby is one of those people who's uncomfortable in his skin. Always has been. Always will be. It comes from being such a very awkward preteen, he thinks. Always so sure he was going to completely and totally embarrass himself. He never did, not really, not in the huge way he was worried about, but he still can't get over the feeling. That he's going to do something stupid. And, well, he just did something stupid.

He kissed John.

Didn't think about it, didn't think about it at all, 'cause if he'd thought about it he sure as hell wouldn't have done it. So it's almost as much a shock to him as it is to John. Maybe more. Not that Johnny seems to be complaining. And then – whoa. He kissed John. That just hit him. Holy shit. That was not in the original plan. Not that his plan was much of a plan, mind you. The kiss just seemed to be more of a fantasy than a feasible option.

So here he is – here they both are, staring at each other like a couple of idiots. And all Bobby can think is that John hasn't changed much. Subtly. In ways probably only he would notice. His hair was longer, and Bobby was willing to bank on the fact that his temper was even shorter. He had a new tattoo on his shoulder and a new scar on his arm. But maybe he hadn't really changed at all. His lighter was still sticking out of his front left pocket, one eye was still slightly darker than the other and you could still see the faint scar on his cheekbone from some misadventure or another. He was still Johnny. Wasn't he?

And before Bobby can figure out exactly which way is up Johnny kisses him this time. And where Bobby's kiss was a 'goddamn-it-I've-missed-you' John's is 'don't-fuck-with-me-fuck-me'. And it's weird, because Bobby prides himself on being the only one with even an inkling of what goes on in John's mind., on what's going on behind those dark eyes. Only he realizes that even he doesn't have a clue right now. That's a look Bobby's never seen. It's kind of like how John looks at fire, but only a little. And then he doesn't know and he'll probably never know, because his eyes have slid shut. Slid shut in pure bliss. Fuck, Johnny can kiss. Pent up anger and heat and questions that haven't been answered are all pouring out, are all demanding a reaction. And if it's a reaction John was looking for, it's a reaction he's getting.

Bobby wraps one arm around John's neck and the other around his waist. He doesn't protest when John pushes him up and against the wall. He barely registers that the weaker his knees get the tighter he clings to Johnny. He's been waiting for this, damn it. He thought he'd been waiting for months but now he realizes he's been waiting for this his whole life. His hips begin to move up against John's of their own accord.

And Bobby is surprised when Johnny pulls back, so surprised he almost doesn't notice that Johnny's hair is messier than before, his lips red and swollen, his breath hot against Bobby's face. Bobby's trying to discover if he still has a brain to use when John laughs. He grabs hold of Bobby's hand and drags him back out onto the dance floor, the lights swirling and flashing in front of Bobby's eyes, the smoke sort of irritating him but not really, because Johnny smells like smoke all the time. And when they hit the dance floor they dance, obviously, and John looks good when he dances. The opposite of Bobby, who never really could dance but discovers it's not so difficult with John wrapped around him. Not so difficult at all. Not even when the music is pushing into his ears, clawing at the edges of his brain, screaming for room. Not that he's even really paying attention to the music, not when every place that John is touching him burns.

John's hand is resting comfortably on Bobby's stomach, moving him back and forth against John with each beat. The movement is not very fast but it's not slow either. Dancing feels almost like sex, for some reason, which is strange because how can anything be _almost_ sex? Not that Bobby would actually know. And Bobby thinks he's lucky that none of this requires talking because, true to form, he'd probably babble and babble and never stop babbling, just like the inside of his head seems to be doing right now.

There's a second or two where Bobby completely loses himself in that music. Loses himself in the crowd around him and falls into a place just beneath total consciousness, not quite totally aware. He doesn't even register the other bodies bumping up against his but he knows exactly where John is touching him. Where John isn't touching him. Where he wants John to be touching him. He's hot hot hot and it should feel strange, being so used to the cold. But it doesn't feel strange. Doesn't feel the least bit strange.

He never used to understand the urgency he'd see in couples sometimes, like a few months ago when Jubes and Piotr had been hot and heavy and it seemed like they could never get close enough, never go fast enough. He _understands_ that now. He's a bit dense at times, he admits it. He thought maybe that he had started to get it back in his bedroom at home, when he kissed Rogue. Closer closer harder faster hotter. So he pressed his lips to hers and thought, maybe – but no. Nothing. She stole his breath away and he froze hers. Bobby isn't very good at recognizing death calls in relationships.

But he doesn't have to worry about that right now, because this certainly can't be called anything quite yet. Maybe never. But if it will, if it ever earns that title of 'relationship' he isn't going to worry. Bobby knows better than to try to pin down Johnny. Johnny doesn't know what he's doing in the next hour most times, and if he did it certainly wasn't written in stone. Of course, if he said he'd do something he always would. Johnny was always a whole hell of a lot of contradictions.

John's mouth latches onto the curve of Bobby's neck, the soft juncture just under the edge of his shirt, biting just hard enough for it to hurt, just hard enough for Bobby to cry out. And part of Bobby's mind is screaming, asking what the hell he's getting himself into, and the other part says he would really appreciate if Johnny did that again. Contradictions. Such a _mess_ of contradictions.

"Please, Johnny..." Bobby almost knows what he's asking for, even though he can't say it.

Everything is hopelessly muddled together in his head. Not that any of this ever made sense. Not that it probably ever will. Bobby's not sure if he can keep his cool, if he stand the heat. Not even sure if he wants to anymore. He thinks maybe he understands John a little better now. Doing something too fast to really do it properly yet trying to anyway; there's fun to it. Danger. Not dangerous, exactly, because Bobby knows how dangerous feels. This is... reckless. Wild. Frantic, frenzied, crazy, insane. And there's possibility. A distinct possibility. Of what? Bobby's not sure. And that's half the fun, isn't it?

Too many questions. Too much to think about and only a split second left to decide. But if Bobby were honest he'd realize he decided a long time ago.

He forces his arm to unwind from around John's neck, feels his hand curl up in the other boy's, urges his feet to follow John. They stumble across the dance floor and into a back room of the club, pushing aside a curtain and falling onto the couch or chair or whatever the hell is back there. And god knows how many people have been there before and what they've done, but Bobby doesn't care and he's pretty sure it isn't John's top priority either.

Not when Johnny is looking at him like that. Looking at him the same way he watches the fire flickering in his hands, with this almost unholy glee, like deep down he can't quite believe. And John is so stoic most of the time, so closed off from the world that Bobby can barely register that this _is_ Johnny. _Johnny_ is looking at him like that. It's probably the hottest thing he's ever seen in his life.

Another bruising kiss, and the new and altogether too exciting feeling of John on top of him. He's surprised at the sheer heat radiating off of John's skin, heat he can feel even through the clothes. Heat he'd rather feel without the clothes. One of his hands twists in Johnny's hair, hair softer than Rogue's even. Her hair was actually the only part of Marie you could touch. No one was quite sure why. But Bobby had wondered what Johnny's hair would feel like, what Johnny would smell like. So his hair feels soft and John smells like smoke, woodsmoke. Not the stink of sulfur but clear and crisp and sharp. Sharp's a good word to describe Johnny.

Bobby's fingers itch. Itch because he wants to touch Johnny so. Damn. Badly. But he doesn't know what's game and what's not, what he can do and what he can't. John's got the floor because Bobby's pushed his boundaries as far as he can for one day. He's done pushing. He'll go along if Johnny pulls at him, but Bobby can only fight so much.

But Johnny, as usual, seems to know exactly what he's doing. His hands have no difficulty in rearranging Bobby's clothes, in stroking Bobby surely, and smirking when Bobby whimpers. Bobby follows in fumbling example, heart racing. He's always been hyperaware of everything around him, despite how out of touch with the world his teachers thought he was, and now he's on overdrive. Too much to touchtastehearsmellsee.

At the first touch of Bobby's hand against his stomach John gasps.

"Bobby..."

The word fades into an indistinct growl as Bobby dares to go further, beyond cloth and metal to skin. Hot skin, very hot under Bobby's hands. And Bobby realizes they haven't said one word since they've been in this room. Not one. Not until Johnny said his name. And when Johnny begins to stroke faster, to move up against Bobby, then Johnny's name bursts out from him, and it's a strangled groan that says Bobby can only take so much.

"Johnny..."

John is somewhere between straddling him and sitting on top of him. And it's awkward, because there are better and easier ways to do this but neither of them want to untangle themselves long enough to get that way. They want to see and touch and feel, so yeah, it's awkward, and slightly uncomfortable too, but at the same time Bobby can honestly say he's never felt anything better in his life. He can't stop moving. Can't stop thrusting and grabbing, can't stop from clinging desperately to Johnny, leaving perfect little curved nailmarks as he goes. Every few seconds Johnny kisses Bobby, or bites at his lip or his neck or his nipples through his shirt, because they couldn't take the time to get that undressed, and it's like Johnny can't stand to not be tasting him.

Bobby's world explodes in stars. It had to happen sometime, with his hands around the edge of John's thigh and the curve of his ass, with Johnny pressed up oh-so-hard against his stomach. Bobby arches forward, his nose bumping up against John's as they kiss again, and he thinks he tastes blood. He explodes. That has to be the only word for it. That has to be what happened. But the world fades back from blinding whiteness to color, to Johnny, still moving up against him. And when their mouths meet this time it seems as if one is trying to devour the other. He feels the bite of John's fingers in his sides, the scrape of John's teeth against his neck, the tremor that runs through Johnny's body when he comes, following Bobby by only a second or a minute or two or a year. Time slows, time stops, time is somewhere in Bobby's bloodstream and trying desperately to escape, but he doesn't _want_ it to.

Bobby doesn't know what to say, not in the almost-silence of the room, the only actual sound the fragments of the booming music that manage to bleed their way through the walls. He doesn't know where this goes, but it seems to fall into place. He watches as Johnny pulls off his shirt and wipes them both off. They both zip up and fix their clothes and as they step out of the door Bobby's hand finds its way back into John's. It stays there as they walk back through the club, to the front door and into the chilly May air. Stays that way when John pulls him into a cab and Bobby's mind frantically scrambles to come up with the name of the hotel he's staying at. He finally does and he tells the cab driver, and his hand moves from Johnny's hand to his chest, to a nipple ring that definitely wasn't there at the Mansion and Bobby finds himself inordinately interested in. John's chuckle sends a shiver down his spine.

And they don't talk, and Bobby knows that at some point the silence will have to be broken. But that isn't right now.

* * *

I updated! Yes! Finally!

Sorry. The evil writers block has been banished :)


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